Our Yanks (38 page)

But something was missing – she could feel that in her bones. Something she had not done that she should have. She searched her mind and then, suddenly, knew what it was. William's photograph should be present at this celebration. She took it out of the drawer and set it on top of the bureau. ‘You would have liked Joe, William,' she said. ‘You would have approved of him very much.' It looked rather dusty and so she went to fetch a cloth and was just giving the frame an extra polish when there was a knock at the door. Joe was a little early but that didn't matter. She was quite ready.

It wasn't Joe; it was Tom Hazlet, holding out a letter. She thanked him and went and sat down to read it. She had a little difficulty with the writing.

Miss Cutteridge put her hand up to her eyes.

Christmas Eve wasn't a Friday but Mum had got the tin bath down from its hook, dragged it in front of the range where it was warmer and filled it up from the copper and the buckets. The water was steaming away and she was giving Alfie an extra scrubbing and he was making a really silly fuss about it. Mum wasn't taking any notice, though. ‘I'm not having you going all dirty, Alfie, so you may as well keep still.' More howls and splashes and scrubbing noises. When it came to his turn the water'd be worse than soup. Mum had washed and starched their surplices and ironed them so there wasn't a single crease. She put Alfie's on over his cassock and brushed his hair flat. His face was all clean and shining. Mum said he looked like an angel, which made Tom retch.

He didn't know why they'd let Alfie in the choir in the first place. He never sat still in church and kept blowing dried peas across at Seth and Robbie and Dick with the pea-shooter Tom had stupidly made him out of a bit of elderwood. He never ought to have done that. Miss Hooper was always saying his voice was one of the best she'd ever heard which was just the sort of thing that nobody ought ever to say to Alfie either.

Tom got into the lukewarm soup, washed himself quickly with the Yank soap and got out again. It was going to be a special Christmas; he could feel it. For a start the church choir were singing at the Yanks' carol service. The whole village had been invited and afterwards there was going to be a big party for everyone: a real feast. Only, Dad wasn't home because he was too busy with another airfield. As Mum said, the war didn't stop just because it was Christmas. She couldn't afford to buy them presents, but that hadn't mattered because the radio-shack Yanks had given him and Alfie a great big box all wrapped up in red paper and when they'd opened it they'd found bars of chocolate and candy and two oranges and two bananas. Of course, Alfie had eaten his banana straight away and he'd had to hide the box from him or he'd've scoffed the lot before Christmas had even started.

Best of all, Ed had come down in the jeep – not with washing but with presents he'd brought back from America. Very special thin stockings for Mum and a lipstick which had made her so pleased she'd cried. Nell had been given a soppy doll but Alfie had got a toy Cadillac car in a cardboard box with a picture of it on the outside. It was made of shiny green metal with rubber wheels that went round, doors that opened and shut and a steering wheel that moved. He'd been really envious until Ed had given him
his
present in another box: a wooden model kit for a Mustang, just like Ed's, and he'd promised he'd help him make it. They were going to paint it with Ed's letters on it and the name Bashful.

There was a thick fog outside and the trucks they'd sent down to collect people went grinding very slowly back up the hill in a long convoy to the base cinema where the service was being held. The choir were all together in one truck and when they got there the Yank padre took them into a room at the back where they formed up for the procession. Of course Alfie had got his surplice creased already and there was a dirty mark down the front, and his hair had curled up again.
And
he'd got something in his mouth.

‘What're you chewing?'

‘Black Jack,' Alfie mumbled.

‘Let's see. Open your mouth.'

Alfie did, but shut it again so fast that Tom couldn't see inside properly to know by the colour if he was telling the truth. More likely he'd found the box the radio-shack Yanks had given them and pinched something out of it.

‘Well, hurry up and finish it. You're starting in a minute.'

Alfie had been chosen to do the solo at the beginning of the service and he sang the first verse of the first carol from the doorway.

He was holding a lighted candle and looking all goody-goody, like he never ever did a single thing bad or wrong, and everyone had gone very quiet while they were listening to him. Then the organ joined in and so did everybody else for the rest of the carol. The choir walked slowly down the middle aisle between the rows and rows of Yanks and the villagers, and up onto the stage where there was the biggest and brightest Christmas tree that Tom had ever seen in all his life. There were so many people squashed into the hall that when they were supposed to sit down there weren't enough chairs. The padre said the prayers and the Yanks read the lessons, except for the final one which they'd let Brigadier Mapperton do, and the rector gave the blessing at the end. The very last carol was ‘O come all ye faithful' and everyone roared it out so loud, Yanks and villagers together, that Tom couldn't hear himself singing. Some people were smiling and some people were crying. He could see the tears trickling down their faces. Women were always crying but he'd never seen men cry before.

Carl could see Erika across the packed room, but he couldn't get to her. A woman with a voice like a foghorn off Nantucket had him pinned in a corner while she went on about mobile canteens. He could vaguely remember meeting her before.

‘That's very interesting, Mrs . . . ?'

She gave another blast in his ear. ‘Vernon-Miller. We've met twice before, Colonel.'

‘Of course, I'm so sorry.'

‘As I was saying—'

He interrupted her firmly. ‘I wonder if you'd excuse me for a moment, I rather wanted a word with Lady Beauchamp over there.'

‘That's a coincidence, so do I. I'll come with you.'

It was near the end of the evening before he had the chance to speak to Erika alone.

‘It's been wonderful, Carl,' she said. ‘The carol service and then the party. The children are having the Christmas of their lives. You Yanks are incredibly generous. All that marvellous food . . . I expect Alex will be sick as a dog when we get home.'

‘I sure hope not. That wasn't exactly the idea.' He met her eyes. ‘You know, I thought I was never going to get to talk to you. How are you?'

‘All the better for seeing you. How are you?'

‘The same applies. I've missed you like hell.'

‘Ditto. Don't look at me like that, or people will wonder why.'

‘Don't smile at me like that either, or they won't wonder for long. Erika, I've got to see you again soon—'

‘Careful, she warned. ‘Brigadier Mapperton is coming up fast on your port side.'

‘Oh, Christ . . .' With an effort, he turned round politely. ‘Hallo there, Brigadier. Good to see you.'

Agnes watched Father Christmas giving out presents to the village children after the feast, sitting them on his knee and making them laugh. Santa Claus, the Americans called him, but it was all the same to the English children. She knew perfectly well who it was under the snow-white locks and bushy eyebrows and long beard, dressed up in the bright red costume; knew it easily by the way he was with them and by the way they clustered round him. He delved once more into the sack and came out with yet another present. ‘Ho, ho, ho. This says Miss on it, kids. Who's Miss? I don't know any Miss.' ‘She's there,' they chorused, pointing. ‘That's Miss.' ‘Where? I don't see her.' ‘
Over there
!' they yelled, dragging him across to where she was standing, and jumping up and down with excitement.

He put the present into her hands. ‘Merry Christmas, Miss.' His false whiskers tickled her face and the children shrieked in delight as he kissed her.

Alfie felt sick on the way back in the truck.

‘Serves you right,' Tom said. ‘You shouldn't've eaten so much.'

‘I couldn't help it.'

‘Yes, you could. You had three helpings of everything.'

‘I was hungry. Anyway, I sang all right for them, didn't I? A Red Cross lady said I sounded like something from heaven. She said I made her cry.'

‘I'll be sick as well in a minute.'

Luckily they were sitting at the back of the truck so if Alfie
was
sick he could do it over the tailgate and not over everyone else. Tom thought about the carol service and all the singing, and the great Christmas tree with its hundreds of coloured electric lights and the grown-ups smiling and crying. And the big feast they'd had after with the roast turkey and the jelly and ice cream. And the presents. Of course, he'd known all along that Father Christmas was Ed, who'd given him a huge wink, but he hadn't said anything, specially not to Alfie or he'd've told everyone.

He'd known it was going to be special and it was being the best Christmas he'd ever had. So special he felt like crying too. He wondered if he'd ever have one like it again.

Sam Barnet was raking out the ashes from the bottom of the bakehouse furnace and shovelling them into the bucket. He wouldn't be baking in the morning but the furnace would have to be lit just the same so the oven was ready to roast the Christmas dinners. Threepence a time he charged people, and sometimes he wondered if it was worth it for all the work. He carried the ashes out into the yard and groped around in the fog for some coal and wood. The Yank lorries were making a din, bringing everyone back from the carol service and the Christmas party. He'd never wanted to go but Freda would have done if Sally's labour pains hadn't started. They'd come a lot earlier than expected and they'd been going on for nearly four hours. He could hear Sally groaning and shrieking out, even from the bakehouse. Freda was up there with her, and the district nurse, and Dr Graham had been sent for. Supposing there was something wrong and Sally was in danger? He'd been hard on her, he knew that. She'd behaved like a trollop and brought shame on the family, but the thought of losing his daughter as well as his son was unbearable.

He laid the furnace fire, ready to put a match to, swept the floor clean, and put things tidy. Then, when there was nothing left to be done, he went through into the kitchen and put the kettle on. Freda had been boiling hot water for the doctor and he might as well get some more ready in case it was needed. He sat down at the table and, just as he did so, there was another shriek from Sally: more than a shriek, a loud and terrible scream of agony that horrified him. And it went on and on until he clapped his hands over his ears in distress. He couldn't remember Freda going through anything like that when Roger and Sally had been born. When, at last, he took his hands away there was silence and in the silence he could hear the church clock striking midnight. As the twelfth note faded away there was another sound – the full-lunged, furious yell of a baby protesting at being thrust into the world.

Sam ran to the foot of the stairs and stood waiting, his heart thumping hard. After what seemed to him a very long time, Dr Graham came down the stairs and put a hand on his shoulder.

‘Congratulations, Sam. You've got a fine healthy grandson.'

His voice was croaky: ‘Is Sally all right?'

‘Yes, don't worry. It wasn't an easy birth and she's very tired, but she'll recover quickly. The nurse will take care of things and I'll be back again in the morning.'

‘Thank you, doctor.'

The doctor paused at the door. He said with a smile: ‘A pretty good Christmas present, Sam, I'd say. Just what I'd order for you. You're a lucky fellow.'

He went back to the foot of the stairs and presently Freda came down, carrying a bundle in her arms. ‘I thought you'd like to see him.'

He stared down at the tiny face, nestled in the lumpy woollen shawl that Freda had knitted. ‘He's got blue eyes, just like that Yank.'

‘All babies have blue eyes to start with. They might turn brown later, like yours. I think he looks a bit like you, Sam.'

He couldn't see any resemblance to himself at all. Freda held out the bundle. ‘Would you like to hold him?'

He backed off instantly, shaking his head. ‘When's Sally going to have him adopted, then?'

‘She's got to look after him herself for a bit, hasn't she, poor little mite? She can't give him away just yet.'

‘The sooner the better, I reckon,' he said. ‘Best all round.'

‘What is it, Doris?'

‘If you please, there's an American officer at the door.'

Miriam said sharply, ‘What does he want?'

‘He didn't say, milady. He just asked to speak to Lady Beauchamp.'